


Wine Red

by Rhidee (orphan_account)



Category: Graveyard Keeper (Video Game)
Genre: Corpses, Flirting, I think? Admitably i'm not MARRIED to the lore here, M/M, Non graphically! Canon typical!, Pining, Queer Themes, Religious Guilt, Subtext, Unresolved Romantic Tension, cursed artifacts, medieval setting, oh yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29668521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Rhidee
Summary: “Do you think the graveyard could look any better?” The graveyard keeper joked, gesturing a calloused hand to the wall of fog.  The bishop let loose a (dignified) snort.
Relationships: The Bishop (Graveyard Keeper)/The Graveyard Keeper





	Wine Red

The graveyard keeper was lugging a big, scented sack around, shaped roughly like a human body. In one hand, he held it firm on his back. In another he was eating roasted mushrooms.

The bishop watched this with faint disgust. He could never be so- crass, as to eat so close to a corpse. But at the same time, that boldness…It was interesting.

The graveyard keeper nodded as he passed by, going over to a small arrangement of sticks and kicking them aside. The bishop watched as he threw the body down, his shirt shifting taunt along his muscles, like it was made for another man. The graveyard keeper picked up a shovel and began to dig, mushrooms still in hand.

The bishop looked away hurriedly, pulling out his mirror and gazing into it. That’s right, there you are. No need to stress, no need to be nervous. Perfect as ever, your reflection. Pristine, confident….There you are.

The bishop sighed, rubbing his thumb over the curve of the handle, warmed from his hand. He put it away and shifted his hands back into the depths of his robes.

There were things one noticed, when you spent one day every day with someone. The graveyard keeper was not very prompt to display the religious words- he was an odd man and would often leave church goers waiting while he finished his tasks. His preaching’s were… unusual. But he was undeniably blessed with some power of speech, or at least of mild entertainment, for every Sun day people attended. Sitting with their hands twiddling, chatting idly in the church as they respectfully ignored the graveyard keeper stumbling in and out, doing all kinds of things. 

The bishop wasn’t one for small talk, admitably. But the echo’s from within were enough to create this... comfortable feeling. It brought him some degree of comfort when…well.

The graveyard keeper was examining the graves with an eerie look, as if he could see what was inside through pure force of will. It was a calculating, _confident_ gaze. The bishop wished he drew that attention. In the same way humans yearn for God’s all powerful gaze…well. Well.

Even if watching the keeper wasn’t enough to indicate his holy, spirit like tendencies, the church gossip would certainly carry. Even with the risk of the man himself walking in, the gathering often would speak of him superstitiously. Ms. Fie swore up and down the keeper had appeared, like an angelic vision, before the guard at the mountain fort (who was quite obviously her husband). Several people spoke quietly on how, sometimes, he entered the Dead Horse…with no mud on his shoes at all. As if the ground itself was too kind to sully him.

The bishop wanted to have the confidence, the holy audacity, to do what even the ground dared not.

-

The bishop didn't generally enjoy the walk to the graveyard. Sure, the bit through the fields was gorgeous, but the town...was lacking. Partially cobbled streets seemed to be perpetually oozing mud like some sort of pus filled sore, the proximity to the swamp utterly ruining any roadwork done. The people were neutral- his status as a holy man granted him some level of protection, even from those he hardly knew, but the area was certainly poor enough to begrudge his well cared for form. 

Sometimes, being so untouchable felt terribly lonely. He wished, briefly, that someone would try to rob him, if only he could feel their touch. But he cast aside those thoughts. God, in his infinite wisdom, must simply be motivating him. Or, perhaps, helping him abstain until he found a most perfect being.

Like the graveyard keeper.

There was something so heady about a man like him, strong, kind, holy, demurring to the bishop. Something about being called ‘your holiness’, about the subtle glint in the graveyard keepers’ eyes, the tantalizing mix of tease and obedience…

Surely, this was no wives tale. The perfection, it could only be arranged by a higher power. The way the bishops heart flipped in his chest, the way he felt his eyes crinkle, it could only be a blessing. Nothing that feels this good could be anything sinful, for he was neither gluttonous for or envious of the man. A most beautiful, kind emotion, like a cellar cool wine on a hot day.

Not that one could _say it_. 

-

It was a damp, fog filled morning, and the bishop’s hands felt clammy. He wipes his hands off on his robes, but only succeeded at picking up dirt, which he looked at with distaste. Oh, but how he yearned for a nice high place to sit, above all of the fog and filth. He considered going inside the church, but just a glance revealed the walls were unfortunately dappled with mold.

There was a sound, and the bishop startled as the graveyard keeper emerged through the fog, glowing like a lighthouse in the night. He smiled, and the bishop could not help but smile back.

“Do you think the graveyard could look any better?” The graveyard keeper joked, gesturing a calloused hand to the wall of fog. The bishop let loose a (dignified) snort.

“Perhaps if you aired out the place.” He replied.

The graveyard keeper rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall. He ran a hand through his hair, pressing it back and running his fingers along his neck. His skin was incredibly fair, and had hardly a scar or blemish. The line of his neck looked like one of God’s finer creations. The bishop averted his eyes.

He took out his mirror with a dramatic swoosh, and tried not to visibly preen at the keepers eyes tracking him. He angled the mirror at him.

“For your vanity.”

“Thanks.” The graveyard keeper replied. He put his hand on the mirror as if to take it, but the bishop didn’t let go. They stood for an awkward moment, hands overlapped, before the graveyard keeper let out an awkward laugh and let go. The bishop’s knuckles went white on the mirror.

“Sorry, I suppose you wouldn’t want me running off with it.” The graveyard keeper backed up a bit, and began to muss his hair in the mirror. The bishop’s heart was pounding.

“You do have me outmatched for speed,” the bishop acknowledged with a head tilt, “But I believe I could just sit inside your cabin and wait for you to return.”

The graveyard keeper patted dirt off his shirt, and leaned back from the mirror. He seemed to shine even more, even in this hazy, fog world. He made the bishop want to say sacrilegious things about his beauty. He made the bishop want to be brave. 

“I don’t have any chairs, but I guess you could just sit on my bed.” The graveyard keeper replied.

The bishop looked at the mirror, and traced the lines of his own face carefully.

“Would you be so opposed?” He asked, carefully.

The graveyard keeper looked thoughtful, then shrugged.

“Not really? I think you’re probably a bit cleaner than me- there’s not much you could track in that I haven’t already.”

“Oh, how disgusting.” The bishop remarked without thinking, and then hurriedly waved his hand. “Of course, what a man does in his own dwelling is his own business, but surely you shake your sheets free of rot? It would do you no good to end up in your own graveyard. Why, I can’t fathom who would bury you.”

The graveyard keeper scrunched his nose, the wrinkles so very intriguing, like a map of the land.

“Yeah, no. There’s nothing too gross, but I definitely don’t wash it enough.”

“I imagine it’s difficult to keep up with housework for us without…women of our own.” The bishop remarked, carefully.

A peculiar look passed over the graveyard keepers face.

“Yes, I suppose my life would be much different with a lady here.”

Oh, but regardless of his inclinations, speaking to the keeper was like deciphering riddles from a bored scholar. He must be more upfront.

“Do you desire a lady?” 

The graveyard keeper made a dismissive sound. 

“I’m not looking for anyone, no.”

Anyone- not any lady. Thank you, Lord, for another blessed day in this good land. The bishop smiled.

“Of course, dear keeper. I understand you perfectly.”

-

The graveyard keeper didn’t always show up. Which was disappointing, to be sure, but what could he expect? An attentive man, at his beck and call? The keeper was clearly following a higher calling, carving away at graves, disappearing into the depths of the church for hours on end. But still, it was semi required that the bishop spend time at the graveyard, as a visual reminder and moral support if nothing else. 

Plus, the graveyard keeper being absent meant…well. The bishop could get away with a little bit more.

A few weeks ago, the keeper had planted the most beautiful looking apple trees. They had grown quickly, and strong, and were already bearing their first fruit. And they looked, frankly, delicious.

It was irritating, on a quiet level, that the keeper had to be…all that. And then plant apple trees, of all things. Apple trees! Could there be a more befitting, more scandalous expression of indulgence? A tree bearing fruit for mans common sins- a fruit used for wine, for temptation, a fruit with the most strictest of guidelines from the local doctors about how to eat them? Something too dangerous to eat in an untamed form, that needed to be cooked, sugared, or pressed?

The bishop felt raw, looking at them. Looking at the bright red, over his head every time he passed by. Like a wound rubbed sore. A devil dancing in the breeze. “Look, come closer, touch us with your lips, feel us with your tongue. We know you want to, but do you dare? Please, sir, just a few inches more”.

The bishop had seen the graveyard keeper eating them- picking them off the branch, biting into them, with barely a pause. As if the danger could not touch him. As if nothing could, not to harm. 

The graveyard keeper moved like a man with a mission, but also without any fear of failure. Not in words-no, he had fumbled that more than once- but in _body_. A body the bishop had watched closely.

He stared up at the bright red of the trees. Nobody was around- most had settled in for a long day of waiting inside the church. Just him, the breeze, and the bright red fruits that so tempted mankind from the very beginning.

The bishop reached up, fingers glancing off the smooth skin of the apple.

But he could not reach.

He put his hands within his robes. Looked at the dirt, at the rocks lying about. He could perhaps throw something, knock it down…

But no. Even one as fallen as he had some pride. 

He went back to the church, and left the apple shining behind.

Untouchable.

-

“Do you spend much time indoors?” The bishop asked. The graveyard keeper was wiping his hands on his pants, jittery from performing a service. Behind them, people trinkled out, dropping their coins and staying respectfully quiet as they made their leave.

The keeper nodded.

“I have a lot of uh, tasks, that I have set up indoors. Not to say I never go out, but it’s way easier to stay in one area than walk around all day.”

“Not a fan of the scenic swamp side view?” 

The graveyard keeper laughed, tumbling out like jewels from a satchel.

“No, I guess not.”

The conversation seemed to be calming the keeper, and the bishop allowed himself a small proud grin.

They trailed off into comfortable silence, walking together as the graveyard keeper opened up the donations box, filling the air with a metallic creak and the shifting sound of coins.

“Do you ever wish you were somewhere else?” The graveyard keeper asked suddenly.

The bishop looked around for a moment. Dust motes were drifting in the sunlight, but the walls remained moldy. The graveyard keeper had a weird, contemplative look on his face, shifting on his feet as he put the coins away. The bishop doubted he meant the church itself.

“My dear keeper, I think where you are is more a matter of…Company. And you are not overly unpleasant to be around.”

The keeper snorted and mumbled under his breath, ‘not overly unpleasant…’

The bishop kept smiling until the graveyard keeper looked up, and then had to resist a laugh when the keeper rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful.

“I’m glad my tolerable company lightens this place up for you.” The graveyard keeper said, making his way out the door.

The bishop walked a bit closer than was proper, and failed to keep the amusement out of his voice.

“Keeper, you have no idea.”

**Author's Note:**

> WHEW! WHEW! WHEW!  
> Ya'll remember when i dropped that darkside detective fic like two years ago? This came from the same place  
> I have not finished the game (saving up for my aristocrat papers) but this concept grabbed me by the throat and I started pausing every in game night to jot it down. Also in case you were wondering! Yeah apparently you were supposed to cook apples before you ate them way back when. I googled nothing else.
> 
> Here's bonus memes:
> 
> BISHOP: god its so sexy how you dont have scurvy
> 
> WHAT IF WE HELD HANDS 🙈😳 OVER MY CURSED RELIC
> 
> BISHOP: intricate rituals  
> KEEPER: whens the last time i washed my pants...
> 
>   
> [Plus this photo!](https://imgur.com/a/WtgEkn9)


End file.
